Lady Reaper and The Liar
by andrastesflamingass
Summary: She clings to violence, he clings to lies. Foolishly he tries to stem the force of his love for her, to deny it, fighting it every step of the way. He doesn't believe that he deserves to be loved, not by her, especially, but she is patient and unyielding, and some things cannot be stopped.
1. Chapter 1

She showed up at the catacombs entrance with Nick Valentine, the synth detective, at her back. He'd been watching her, so he knew she was coming. Picking up hints about the Freedom Trail, and then following it through some of the most dangerous areas of Boston. She was fucking hardy - he'd watched her evade death and dish death out in equal part in all the time he'd spent following her, but never once did he see her lose the upper hand in battle. Just to get to Old North Church she carved a path through raiders, gunners, muties, and ferals - God help _any_ creature who stood in her way. Or not, cause, you know, they were evil and she was good. She _was_ good, right? When she reached the Railroad's doorstep she was covered in blood and chunks of gore, and absolutely dazzling. He'd been following for a long time, but this _felt_ like the first time he'd ever laid eyes on her. Fresh perspective, and all that. He could've swore time slowed down and the theme from _A Summer Place_ played as she raised her arm to shield her face from the floodlights. Figure curvy yet capable, wrapped in Vault-Tec cerulean and mismatched cobbled-together skin was sweet, rich caramel ornamented with freckles and battlescars and an ultra-saturated smudge of cherry red lips formed into a perfectly sculpted perma-smirk. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she brushed aside her panther-black bob and smiled up at his and Desdemona's drawn guns. He got the sense that she found herself in this position a lot, smiling up at hot steel. Nobody could shoot that smile. It was more than just beauty.

"Would you risk your life for a synth?" Dez asked.

"She has. Several times." Nick spoke from behind her.

"And I will again." She added.

Well, nobody had ever shown up _with_ a synth to vouch for them before. Points for originality.

Dez was hard, and Dez was cautious, but Dez trusted the woman almost implicitly. As a new Railroad agent she was given a codename and he couldn't have picked a better one himself. _Whisper._ Cause that's how she was, soft and easy, a quiet suggestion right in your ear, slipping in real cool and making you think it was your idea all along. He watched her charm her way through first impressions at HQ. She met everyone where they were. Glory got roguish sarcasm and gun talk, Dez got respect, Doc Carrington got smoke blown up his ass, Drummer Boy got told he was important, and Tinker Tom got someone to stand and listen patiently. Deacon wasn't used to anyone being as wily as he was, and he liked her _way_ too much to feel threatened by it.

He learned a lot about her, that first mission together at the Switchboard. The first thing he learned was that she was _fucking deadly_ , and thank God for it. And not in a brutish way, either. She was subtle, careful, _smart_. Killer aim and shrewd battle sense, she fought like someone who had a lot to lose. A surgeon with a bobby pin, and adept at hacking terminals, she used every advantage presented to her. She preferred energy weapons, and she would never admit it, but it was mostly because it just made her feel good to reduce baddies into little piles of bone dust and viscera (or burnt wires and charred metal, in the case of the Gen 1s that had overtaken the Switchboard.) The second thing he learned was that she was fun, fun as hell. She could keep up with him, with his sarcasm and wit and constant jokes. She rolled with the punches, adapting when he let her take the lead with the tourist, never missing a beat. In battle, too. They worked as one unit better than anyone else he'd ever gone on missions with. They covered each other, they communicated without words when words could get them killed, she anticipated him in a way that made collaborative strategy a breeze and an absolute joy. They nabbed the Doc's prototype and dipped out, mission complete, and when they agreed to split up and meet back at HQ she couldn't suppress a grin.

"We made a good team."

 _"The best._ " And boy, did he mean it. He started missing her from the second she turned her back and walked away and _oh, that ass._ What was that saying? Hate to see you go, _love_ to watch you walk away? Yep. That was it. He watched her hips sway, breath stuck in his chest with an oppressive tightness, until she faded into the Wasteland fog. _Exhale, buddy. Exhale._

Dez was so impressed with her success, she saddled her with another mission right away. Bunker Hill, Old Man Stockton, H2-22, and Deacon right by her side. He couldn't deny his delight when Whisper slid right in to the covert language with Stockton - there was _a package_ that she needed to _facilitate the delivery_ of. Espionage came so naturally to her. Almost as naturally as killing, which was the next step. A dozen raiders, wasted outside of an old church that was to be the rendezvous point. Stockton would bring them H2, and another contact would meet them to take H2 to a safe house. But it was early afternoon, and Stockton said he would meet them after dark, and _that's_ how Deacon found himself alone with Whisper in an old dilapidated church with a few hours to kill.

He sat down on one of the pews, laying his sniper rifle down and kicking his boots up on the back of the bench in front of him.

"Now this, _this_ is my favorite part of the job. Excitement, danger, espionage, saving lives? Nah. I'm in it for the idle downtime."

Whisper chuckled. She held tight to her laser rifle, but he saw her shoulders relax ever so slightly.

"Yeah… nothing gets the adrenaline pumping _quite_ like standing around doing shit all."

He grinned. Whisper stood with her chest puffed out, and a wary gaze fixed on the door. Her finger stayed close to the trigger of her laser rifle, and he could tell she was still on alert. For a moment, he thought about what she'd been through, and he felt a pang deep inside. The Wasteland was hell for people who were born into it. But she'd had a normal life, once. She lived in the world before the bombs - a cotton candy paradise in the eyes of most Wastelanders. He couldn't begin to imagine.

"At ease, sarge." His voice was soft and he was so glad for his sunglasses because he was sure his eyes betrayed his empathy. "We got all the raiders, and we'll hear anything else way before it comes. _Relax."_

And relax she did. It was like a switch flipped. She holstered her gun and sat down on the floor in front of him. As the sun set, that little dilapidated church was filled with the sounds of Diamond City Radio and laughter, and two little cigarette spots burning like bright stars. She pulled a surprisingly well-preserved pack of cards out of her pack, and they played crazy eights while chatting idly. She didn't seem eager to speak of anything before she woke up in the Vault, and he sure as hell wasn't going to press. She hadn't been long in the Wasteland, but she already had plenty of stories to tell. Her eyes lit up as she told him about how one of the very first things she'd done out of the vault was hop into a suit of power armor and fight a Deathclaw - and then animatedly reenacted the fight. She played the role of both herself and the Deathclaw with incredible acting skills - claw hands and ferocious roars as the Deathclaw, and metal hydraulics and minigun blasts as herself. She smiled fondly when she recounted how she'd teamed up with Diamond City's Bobrov brothers to fabricate a fake bar fight to boost the confidence of Travis, from the radio. _Holy shit, that was you?! He's like a different man now!_ And she seemed to have no end of good things to say about Nick - he was a beloved friend, just by the way she talked about him.

For a brief moment, the conversation lulled into a comfortable silence, and she looked up at the pulpit. Rising from a pile of post-apocalyptic debris was a big wooden cross. The way her eyes snagged on it… just the smallest second's lingering gaze… yeah, he knew that.

"You a God-fearing woman, Whisper?"

She let out an abrasive, barking laugh.

" _Hell_ no!" _Ooh, nice blasphemy, doll._ "Even if I had been, before the bombs… what kind of God would let _this_ happen?" She made a sweeping gesture with her arm that he understood as _and by_ this _, I mean this general apocalyptic hellscape shithole of a Wasteland._ "No. I never was religious, much to my parents' disappointment. Even though it was their fault I was so repulsed by religion in the first place. When will parents learn that the whole oppressive Puritan religious dictatorship thing just pushes their hormonal teenage kids further in to sin?" "Oh yeah. Tale as old as time. Guilt, manipulation, mind games, future psychological issues… good, wholesome family fun. Tough break, girl. Sorry 'bout it."

Whisper shrugged lightheartedly. "I'm glad for it, actually. Made it all easier… all this." There was pain in that last word. Oceans of it, dark and deep and scary. And then the sun came out and she was up again. "Besides, it's not all bleak. I may not believe in God, but I believe in people. Good people, trying to do good in this shit world. Like Nick. And you."

He knew she meant _you_ as in the Railroad, not him personally Deacon, but she looked at him and smiled and he was so damn dazzled down to his core and was she an actual, real angel? _Say something, man, be cool!_ He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his head.

"Yeah, well, you're doing good too. Good of you to help us. And I hope we can help you, too. Ya know, with finding your son and all that."

Her smile was strained, but no colder, and she nodded in solemn acknowledgement. She was so young, and so vibrant. It was strange to think of her as a widow, as the vengeful mother. It was like a jacket that didn't quite fit, too tight in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves. There was much disconnect between what he knew about her, and what he saw in her, and it was delicious and endlessly intriguing. _Aaaaand here's Old Man Stockton with H2-22. Let's get this package in the mail._

She was gentle and kind with H2-22, repeatedly reassuring him that they would keep him safe. He saw the mother in her, then, and it was sweet and tender and in such stark contrast to the way she went out and absolutely fucking _massacred_ scores of raiders and muties on the route from the church to Ticonderoga… but if it was all to keep H2 safe, and get him to safety, well… that's pretty motherly, too. She got the job done, better than any agent he'd worked with, rookie or vet. After the mission they should've gone straight back to HQ, but she suggested a round of drinks at the Third Rail and he couldn't say no. Later that night, three-quarters of the way through a bottle of whiskey, she turned to him with hazy eyes. The bar was dark, crowded, and filled with smoke, and sweet Magnolia was crooning, and Whisper's shoulder was pressed against his, and there was something so very intimate about this moment. Before she even opened her mouth he could tell that her guard was down, just a little bit.

"I lied." _Heh._ He laughed inwardly. Her voice was low, words slurred slightly. "Earlier. In the church. About God." For a moment she gazed off past Whitechapel Charlie, eyes unfocused, brows furrowed. He nudged her slightly.

"Yeah? Spill, sister."

"I do believe in God. Well, not like, Santa Claus in the sky God. But I believe that there is some force… something bigger than us, something that controls us, something that rules us all." Her whiskey tumbler dangled from her fingers, and she gestured with it emphatically. "It's death! Deacon. Death. _Death is God._ "

She was dead serious and it was actually really sad when he thought about the things she'd gone through to make her feel that way (and she wasn't wrong) but he couldn't help himself but burst out laughing. _She's got it all figured out. She really does._ He clapped an arm around her shoulder and grinned boisterously.

"You're right, you know? Death _is_ God. And you're the fucking Grim Reaper. Come on now, miss Hand of God, I think you've had just about enough to drink. I'll get you a room at the Rexford. Rest up, cause in the morning we're going back to HQ and giving Dez a mission recap. I'm gonna make up some crazy story again - you'll play along, right?"

"Yeah," she smiled, tipsy. "I'll play along. I always will."

Oh, he _liked_ her.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't long before he saw Whisper seduce a man for intel. Some poor Upper Stands stuffed shirt who knew too much and couldn't keep his cool. She had this pretty dress, pink, she kept clean and neatly folded in her pack, to be taken out any time she needed to look nice. They entered the Taphouse separately, and Deacon nursed a drink at the bar inconspicuously as Whisper sidled over to the target. She was good. Real good. She left with the man, and when she came back alone an hour later she had information about a synth in the pipe and Deacon had a lot of confused feelings.

Then it was a Diamond City Security guard, just for fun. She lit up underneath the Power Noodle sign. She was a girl again, giggling and twirling her hair. The guy was handsome, and he ate it up. Whisper had a hookup with Becky Fallon to save her any scavenged cosmetics that came through her supply lines. She had a little golden bullet of red lipstick worn down to a rounded-off nub, and some black eyeliner, and he watched her relish in the application of these items many times, like a little ritual. It was strange, but it was beginning to make sense to him. He would've bet money that she was a man-eater before the war (before she settled down, got married, had a kid.) This was her way of retaining normalcy. His heart stung when he thought of being torn from your life so violently that you have to find something, _anything_ , so small, just to connect yourself back to it. It was noble, and it made her really good at what she does, and he liked it. And every time he saw another man have her, or implied have her, or even think about having her, he wanted her more. She knew it, too.

He misses her when she's gone. Like when she takes Nick into the Glowing Sea to hunt down some rumored former Institute scientist. He'd never known anyone willing to go to such great lengths on nothing but a scrap of a hope of a hushed rumor. She threw herself at danger so eagerly and he was worried she would never come back. People disappeared without a trace all the time in the Wasteland, their bones ground into the irradiated dirt, no eulogy or gravestone or mourning. He didn't want her flame snuffed out before he had time to properly feel it's heat.

She came back, though. She went to the center of the freaking Glowing Sea, to the god damn atom bomb crater, and by some unholy miracle she survived to tell the tale. Besides, he should've known better than to assume that she was only in danger when she _wasn't_ with him. She was quiet when she came back from the Glowing Sea. Tight-lipped, like she was still chewing on whatever it was she found there. It was hard not to be curious. It was hard not to ask. On the way to whatever it was that was left of Augusta safe house, he couldn't resist a little question. Just about what it was like. Not what she found. Just… what it was _like_.

"You really _don't_ want to know what it was like."

"No, you're right, I don't. That's why I asked."

She rolled her eyes.

"It's the worst of the Wasteland times a thousand. You can't see more than fifteen feet in front of your face. It's dark, _so dark_ , and yet the sun _glares_. There's sludge everywhere, and it's prime radscorpion breeding ground. It _sucks_."

"So… a prime vacation spot, then? I'll whip up a tourism campaign. 'Come to the beautiful Glowing Sea. _It sucks._ Now with more gigantic mutated scorpions! And _sludge!_ '"

Whisper snorted derisively.

"I have to go back, you know."

"Well _shit."_

The steps leading up to Kendall Hospital, formerly Augusta safehouse, loomed in front of them. She popped a fresh fusion cell in her laser rifle.

"Yeah… shit is right. Come on, let's do this. I need to kill something."

She led the way through the hospital, zapping the raiders that had inhabited it. With every scavver she killed, the furrow in between her brows just got deeper and meaner. She was _way_ deep in thought. Battle trance. The violence was helping her wrestle with whatever it was that was troubling her so - and he guessed it had something to do with what she'd found in the Glowing Sea. In the biggest central chamber of the busted hospital, there was a mountain of old desks and chairs and bookshelves burning and crackling. Nearby, on a pallet, a dozen bodies had been hastily piled in a heap.

"Fuck." Deacon swallowed. "These are our people. _Were_ our people. God dammit."

For a moment, Whisper dipped out of her thought bubble. She placed a slender hand gently on his bicep, her eyes dark and angry and empathetic all at once.

"Deacon." Her voice was hushed. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah." His mouth was set in a hard line. "Let's make this right."

They fought with renewed vigor, because now it was _personal_ , and cleared out the building in record time. In a rusty desk drawer upstairs, Whisper found a holotape. She popped it in her Pip Boy and they listened solemnly to the last moments of Augusta. A sick silence hung in the air for a few moments afterwards, and finally Deacon spoke, low and hoarse.

"Let's get this back to HQ."

They made their way back down to the bottom floor. Because of the way some of the upper floors had collapsed, the half of the bottom floor where they'd entered was partitioned from the half of the bottom floor where they would exit. As soon as Deacon's boots touched the ground he could feel that something was wrong, _really_ wrong. Whisper felt it too - the little hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention, and she locked eyes with Deacon. They came to agreement wordlessly. _Careful. Slow. Quiet._ They could hear the fire crackling on the other side of the wall of debris, and they held their breath as they crept along the outer corner of the room. The exit door was controlled by a button - a button that didn't respond when Deacon pressed it. _Power's out._ Whisper nodded and began scanning the area immediately around the door. Lots and lots of dusty power consoles, dim and unresponsive, and…. there it was. A circuit breaker box. _Bingo._ She opened the metal door and flipped the circuit breaker. The power switched on with a low hum, and they heard a shriek and a crash from the other side of the room.

Nothing hones your reflexes like the Wasteland. At literally any moment there are a thousand different things that _really_ want to kill you and can do so in a matter of seconds. Deathclaws are nine feet tall and can get from wherever they are to wherever you are in just a few steps. There's no room for hesitation - an instant was the difference between life and death. The beast turned towards them, picked up a nearby wheelchair in her gigantic claws, and threw it in their direction. It hit the ground near Whisper's feet and shattered. It began to move, and the ground rumbled.

"Fuck!" Whisper hissed. "Get over there, by the door. Take out it's limbs first!"

Close quarters were _not_ ideal for fighting a deathclaw. Deacon moved over by the door, and aimed down his scope at the deathclaw's joints. Hit it there, and you impede it's speed and ability to move. Whisper gripped her laser rifle and strode out to the middle of the room. It almost looked like she was running to meet the- _dear fucking God, she's running to meet the deathclaw._ She popped a few quick shots, also aiming for the beast's joints. They both hit it's right elbow and it shrieked, it's arm slamming on the ground, hanging limp and useless. Injured and pissed off, but not slowed down at all. _Legs, Deacon. Get the legs._ The monster lunged at Whisper with it's good arm, and Whisper ducked down and rolled between the creature's gigantic scaly legs. She rose and spun in one quick motion and fired right at the soft, fleshy backside of the deathclaw's left knee. Once, twice, in quick succession, and the deathclaw roared so loudly that pieces of the ceiling began to crumble and fall. Now one of it's legs was crippled. It spun around to face Whisper and _god dammit Whisper you should've backed up before you shot!_ The beast was close enough that it didn't have to move to attack Whisper. It swiped and wrapped it's monstrous claws around Whisper. Deacon cursed under his breath and lined up another shot.

It had Whisper clasped in one hand. Each individual talon on a deathclaw's hand is at least as long as a grown man's arm. And sharp, and strong. It's why they're called _death claws_. The beast raised Whisper up high above it's head. Deacon saw his partner's legs, shocks of bright blue, kick and flail wildly. The deathclaw pulled it's arm back and slammed Whisper down on the ground, hard. Whisper felt her ribs break, white-hot pain slicing her inside and spreading quick. She screamed and tasted blood. The monster was above her, and she could feel it's breath on her face, hot and stinking like rotten meat. A deathclaw's belly is it's most vulnerable area. Soft, fleshy, not protected by hard scales like the rest of it's body. The monster raised it's arm to strike again and Whisper quickly rapid-fired six or seven shots from her rifle, clutched close to her side. The laser burned a hole straight through the deathclaw's hide. With a high-pitched shriek, the creature brought it's arm down swinging, and it's claws tore through both fabric and flesh on Whisper's right shoulder. She hissed as she felt hot blood bloom over the area. In the same moment, she dug her rifle into the deathclaw's chest and emptied an entire fusion cell in to the beast. She grit her teeth as the monster slumped over her, and through ringing ears she heard sniper rifle shots coming form the other side of the room. It was already most of the way dead - but Deacon had shot it several times in the head. Just to be sure. It let out a low groan as it died, and Whisper used the last of her strength to push the monster's bleeding ravaged corpse off of her own bleeding ravaged but still very much alive body. Her breath came short and jagged, and she blinked away stars as she stared at the ceiling. She heard footsteps, quick, running towards her.

"Come on now, Lady Reaper." Deacon dropped to his knees next to her and gently lifted her head into his lap. His hands were trembling as he yanked a stimpak out of his pack. _Fuck_ she was hit bad. Four gashes, deep and angry, across her shoulder and chest, and probably some internal bleeding as well. Whisper laughed weakly and then choked. Her eyes were unfocused and she turned and spit a mouthful of blood on the floor next to Deacon's boots. Deacon unceremoniously stabbed the stim into her chest, right of center, so the medicine would spread across the claw wounds and her lungs. He would probably still have to use another one near her ribs. Her black bangs were matted to her face with sweat and dirt, and he pushed them aside, letting his hand rest on her forehead. She was cold and clammy. Her breathing evened out, and she blinked slowly. The pain was already starting to dull.

" _Ha ha!"_ she exclaimed, her voice meek and broken and wet. "Take that, God! You're not gettin' me today! _Fuck you!"_

Deacon laughed and wiped away the blood that was dripping out of the side of her mouth. In his head he was counting backwards from sixty, until he could administer another stim.

"Yeah, you tell him, sister! The lady in blue lives to fight another day!"

Whisper squeezed her eyes shut as he stabbed another stim into her ribcage, just below her breasts. He discarded both the empty syringes on the ground and kept his hand on her head. Her temperature was improving. Without thinking, he brushed his thumb across her brow, stroking gently, reassuringly. It was intimate, and comforting, to both of them. For a moment they stayed there, still and silent, the hulking mound of deathclaw corpse cooling next to them. The stims stopped the bleeding and dulled the pain, but she would need to see Doctor Sun to dress the wounds and set her bones. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. _In. Out._ Her entire universe converged on the place where Deacon's skin touched hers. She'd started fucking again as soon as she'd gotten her bearings in the Wasteland. Sex was a powerful weapon, and she couldn't afford not to use it. But it was cold, and soulless, and devoid of emotion. It had been so long, _so long_ , since she had felt a genuine caring touch. Somehow, despite the fact that she was lying on the ground broken and bleeding, it kinda made her feel like everything just might be alright. For the first time since… since the war started, even. There was anxiety before the bombs, about the bombs. Since coming out of the Vault, it was constant. It was beyond anxiety. It was fear, dread, _horror_ , with not a moment's respite. Until now. It wasn't that she cared about Deacon so much that his touch made everything alright - she liked him, but hardly knew him. It was just the touch. A physical reminder that somebody had your back. Somebody would care for you when you were hurt. Nicky had always been there for her and she loved him dearly, but he wasn't the touchy type, and usually it was _she_ who ended up caring for _him._ She lay quietly, and relished the moment. Deacon kept her head cradled in his lap, and his fingers found her pulse on her neck. He was quiet, too, and patient. _Caring._

Eventually she felt her strength returning, and she cracked open one eye, flashing Deacon a strained toothy grin.

"Hey there, bright eyes. How's it hangin'?" He smiled warmly.

She gave him a thumbs up. "I will survive."

"Can you stand?"

She nodded, and he helped her to her feet very slowly and very carefully. She probably could've stood on her own, but he kept her arm draped around his shoulders and his arm wrapped around her waist, supporting her weight. Together they took one step, slowly, then another, towards the now accessible door.

"Hey, Deacon…" she spoke as they walked.

"Hm?"

"Remember at the Switchboard, you told me that if I see a Courser, just _run_?"

"Uh, yeah. You're lucky we _didn't_ see one, or we would both be toast. Very crispy, _dead_ toast."

She laughed. It was getting stronger, heartier. It was a good sound.

"Do you wanna hunt one down and kill it with me?"

He skidded to a halt, and they both almost fell over.

" _Jesus fucking Christ, woman!_ Do you have a death wish? Do you? Cause as your partner I feel like that's something I should know."

"Come on, Deacon! You and me? We can totally take one! And when we do, we'll have a way to get in to the Institute."

He blinked as the weight of her words settled over him. If they could _actually_ find a way to get in to the Institute… it would change everything, for the Railroad. Before, it had been some far-fetched pipe dream. _Dez is gonna lose it. God dammit, we've gotta do this. Me and the fucking Grim Reaper, hunting down death._

"You know you are the _only person_ in the Commonwealth _crazy_ enough to hunt down a Courser? And I'm the only poor shmuck in the Commonwealth crazy enough to agree to do it with you?"

She smiled.

"Well then I guess we make a good team."

"Yeah, _yeah._ " He sighed. _"The best."_


	3. Chapter 3

_It was her wedding day._

 _She should have felt something. Nervous? Excited? Happy? Instead, she felt nothing. Numb, and a dull queasiness that settled over her like a fog. Her mother fussed over her dress, white lace, prim and proper. She clutched a bouquet of daisies at her waist. The church was small, and sunlight filtered in through stained glass windows, bathing her world in a kaleidoscope. She could only see grey._

 _"This doesn't feel right." She looked up at her mother with wide, frightened eyes, as her mother adjusted one of the onyx curls near her face._

 _"I know, sweetie. Just pretend." Her mother cooed. "You will be safe, and comfortable, and that's more than any of us can ask for. You have a nice man who is willing to take care of you. How ungrateful could you be, to turn that down?"_

 _Leila swallowed and nodded. A seed of panic bloomed in the pit of her stomach as she was ushered through the church by a group of faceless bridesmaids. She didn't know them. They wore blush pink. The pews were lined with Gen 1s, each missing limbs and casings, all exposed wires and strange metal. At the end of one of the rows, closest to the aisle, she spotted a familiar fedora._

 _"Nick! Oh my god, Nicky, help me, please. Something's not right here, I'm scared. Help!"_

 _The bridesmaids grabbed her arms and began to drag her down the aisle._

 _"Wish I could, doll." Nick Valentine took a draw of his cigarette, his yellow eyes gleaming. "You gotta help yourself with this one."_

 _She was so frustrated, and so scared, a whimper escaped from her throat and tears stung at her eyes. Every Gen 1 had turned to look at her, their blank faces unblinking and unsettling. Something churned inside of her stomach, pushing on her organs, rolling and twisting. With a shock of horror, she realized it was a fetus. She was pregnant, but it felt more like a parasite. Her legs buckled and she cried out. Standing at the altar was Sheffield, the junkie from Diamond City, in priest's robes. And Nate. She couldn't focus on his face, no matter how hard she tried. It was blurry and made her dizzy. It was flat, one-dimensional. Two black eye holes and a pasted-on grin._

 _As she was shoved in to place at the altar, nausea overtook her. She was sure she would be sick… in front of all these people. On her wedding day. Nate reached out to take her trembling hands and she swallowed hard. In the pews, she saw her father. He was in a wheelchair. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes dark._

 _"I'm sorry, daddy," she whispered tearfully. "I'm trying."_

 _Sheffield cleared his throat._

 _"We are gathered here today to - Nuka-Cola? Does anybody have a Nuka-Cola?"_

 _"That's not what you're supposed to say!" Leila cried. "Can you hurry up and get to the 'speak now or forever hold your peace' part?!"_

 _Sheffield cleared his throat. "Of course. Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace. And if you have a Nuka-Cola, give it to me, please."_

 _"Me!" she shouted. "I object!" Suddenly Nate's face came clearly in to focus, and it hurt. Those big brown eyes. He was so sweet, he always had been. She felt her resolve draining. She couldn't hurt him. She would marry him, and have his child, and be perfectly fine. Her mother was right. She was foolish to think she deserved anything more. He was a good man, and she would be a good wife. She opened her mouth to say never mind, to say I do, and suddenly she heard a strange skidding sound._

 _Her laser rifle was at her feet. It had been slid along the ground to her. It was so out of place here. She saw the army green casing, and the bright yellow fusion cell loaded in it. Her heart sang at the sight of it, and all the fear and dread and panic melted away. In this place, she had been stripped of power, but now it all came coursing back. It felt like she'd just taken a hit of psycho. Before she could look up to see where the weapon came from, she heard a very familiar voice coming from the church doors._

 _"Hey hey, Miss Grim Reaper. What's a girl like you doing in a place like this? I gotta say, though, white is totally your color. It would look even better with some fresh bloodstains. Whaddaya say we go out and make that happen, huh?"_

With a great shuddering gasp, Leila woke up alone in a bed at the Dugout. She was drenched in cold sweat, struggling for breath, her heart racing so fast it was uncomfortable. As her breath came easier and her heart slowed down a little bit, she squeezed her eyes shut and clutched the thin blanket to her chest. _Fuck._ Dreams always knew just where to aim so that it hurt the most. There were things that not a single living soul knew but her, and her subconscious would do it's damned best to remind her of them as frequently as possible. Like that she loved Nate, but she wasn't _in love_ with him. Like that the wedding was rushed because her father was dying. And like that Shaun…. _oh, Shaun…_ she hadn't wanted a baby, at first. All that changed with the first screaming, crying, breath of air he took, but… _oh god._ For a moment she was frozen, immobilized by grief. She'd been pushed into a life that she didn't consider ideal, that she didn't necessarily want… and just as she was growing to truly love it, it had all been snatched away from her. She didn't appreciate it when she'd had it. She certainly didn't deserve it. It was guilt, lead-heavy, that she would carry with her until the day she died.

She lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling, until the grief subsided. The walls everywhere were so thin now, the cold daylight seeped in somehow, despite the fact that there were no windows. She pushed her sweaty bangs back from her forehead and sighed. It was only when she lay still that she could feel the physical toll the Wasteland took on her body. Everything hurt. The ache seeped down to her bones. It was pulsing, throbbing, from her lower back to her feet to her wrists. A raider had slashed her across the face with a broken bottle a while back, and it left a gnarly scar running from her eyebrow to her lip. It was strange, but she didn't mind the scars and the pain. At least when her body hurt it kept her mind from careening off into the deep end - it gave her something to focus on, it grounded her. Plus, she looked pretty great with that scar.

 _"Jesus christ,"_ she muttered quietly to herself. "Did I just dream about Deacon saving me from my own wedding? That's _fucked up."_


	4. Chapter 4

"I like this one the best."

Deacon turned around. Whisper was climbing the stairs behind him, looking up at him with an expression that could only be described as salacious. He'd changed his disguise before they'd started scaling the old ruined skyscraper to place Tinker Tom's MILA. Her meaning was clear, and her tone direct. It was the same disguise he'd been wearing when he first met her. Worn jeans, a simple white t-shirt, high-top sneakers, and his good black wig. The cotton of his shirt was light and thin, and she could see the way the muscles in his back shifted underneath it. And yeah, she did like him better with hair, even if she knew it was a wig. _She's checking me out,_ Deacon realized. He felt warmth blooming across his collarbone, and gasped dramatically.

 _"Dear god, Agent!"_ he feigned horror. "You are positively undressing me with your eyes!"

"Yeah." she grinned. "You like it."

He turned around and continued up the rickety iron staircase. The Commonwealth stretched out beneath them, and Deacon's head spun.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that. But your preference is noted - the lady likes the jeans."

It was the first time she openly flirted with him, but very far from the last. She was stalling, he could tell. With the courser. She was scared, and he didn't blame her. _He_ was scared. Together they had elected not to tell Dez what they were going to do - she would either try to stop them or push them into doing it in a way they didn't want to. It was better to just surprise her with the good news - _hey boss! We killed a Courser and got a chip from it's brain that will help us teleport into the Institute! Do you love us?_ Whisper just needed a little time to work up the nerve. He was more than happy to give her as much time as she needed - just the fact that she wanted to do it in the first place was gutsier than just about anything he'd ever done in his lifetime.

So they ran around doing busywork for the Railroad. Important, meaningful busywork. The kind of busywork that saves lives. Enough so Whisper could distract herself but still feel productive, still feel like she was working towards her goal - towards her son. It came up, once. She'd gotten hit pretty bad by some Gen 1s while clearing out Randolph safe house, punctured full of laser burns. _Not so much fun when you're on the other end of a laser rifle, huh, Lady Reaper?_ Despite his poking fun, he rushed her back to HQ. Carrington shook his head as he examined her. Yeah, she'd gotten on his good side by buttering him up, but the Doc was still an asshole who looked down his nose disapprovingly at all the heavies. Deacon could just tell that he was working up some asshole thing to say as he bandaged Whisper up.

"I have to wonder, agent. Your son has been kidnapped, and yet you spend weeks helping us with menial tasks." He said no more, but the implication is clear. _Do you not want to find your son? Do you not care?_

Nobody else but Deacon would've noticed how her jaw tensed just the slightest little bit. She was watching the doctor bandage her left forearm, and she kept her eyes trained downward.

"Hey, Doc." Deacon spoke curtly, his voice firm and razor sharp. "Not cool."

Whisper waved him off. "It's okay, Deacon." She looked up at the doctor with eyes that made Deacon honestly not even mad that she'd shooed him away because she was about to lay one hell of a verbal smackdown on good ol' Doc.

"I thought you were a smart man, Doctor. I'm not entirely sure why you seem to have a hard time understanding why I would help you, an organization that works in opposition to the Institute, in the process of rescuing my son, who was kidnapped _by_ the Institute."

Carrington swallowed and looked like he didn't know where to point his eyes. She kept going.

"The Institute is one of the best kept secrets in the Commonwealth. Even if I knew where it was or how to get there, I wouldn't have the means, and even if I had the means, I would likely be killed before I could even get close - and that helps no one, least of all my son. Helping the Railroad _is_ looking for my son. Everyone else seems to understand that. Perhaps Tinker Tom can help explain it to you?"

It wasn't often that Deacon saw Carrington at a loss for words, but he opened and closed his mouth uselessly like a fish out of water. He was embarrassed and indignantly angry all at once. _Oh yeah, that's some good schadenfreude._ Deacon liked Whisper even more for managing to make Carrington look like an idiot.

"You have no idea what I've been through and what I continue to go through to find my son." Her voice was full of venom and she practically spit the words out. "Watch your tongue." The doctor was halfway through dressing a laser burn, but she yanked her arm back and stalked away, bandages trailing behind her. Deacon was angry, truly, so much so that he didn't even have a sarcastic comment to toss at the Doctor. Just a disgusted glare.

He tried to talk to her about it, later on.

"Hey… I'm sorry. The doctor is an asshole. He really just enjoys pissing people off, and he had no right to say those things to you."

She smiled, trying her hardest to look like she wasn't bothered, but the smile never reached her eyes.

"It's okay, D. He didn't know what he was talking about. Besides, I've kinda been waiting for an opportunity to tear him a new one."

The Doc had touched a nerve, but there was no point in trying to get her to talk about it. _It's okay,_ he wanted to tell her. _Nobody in their right mind would ever doubt your commitment to your son._ Instead, he said nothing.

One of the best things about Whisper was that she was well-liked and well-connected, socially and professionally. She had friends in every city, and she knew how to have a good time. She always had information about some party going on somewhere, or some hot new joint, or some crazy underground ghoul nightclub. It was good, Deacon supposed. For her mental health. Work hard, play hard, and all that. It was especially good now that Dez was realizing that downtime made her agents more effective. She was starting to encourage them to take time off in-between ops, which was really strange coming from her. Before Whisper, this was downtime they would have spent idly putzing around HQ or getting piss drunk. Now… well, there would still be drinking involved, of course. Just… more exciting drinking.

On this particular warm autumn evening, she'd gotten word from one of her caravan buddies that there was to be quite the happening party down in Bunker Hill. This was nice, because it was a relatively short, safe walk from HQ. She put on her nice pink dress with a small 10mm strapped to her thigh underneath, and rounded up all the agents who felt like kicking back a little bit. Really it was her, Deacon, Glory, and Drummer Boy. They walked through the streets after sunset, Whisper and Glory leading with their arms hooked together, and the boys walking behind them.

Glory _loved_ Whisper. Like, majorly. And vice-versa. They were both very badass, sexy, powerful women, so it made sense that they naturally gravitated towards each other. From the beginning, they just had this closeness. Whisper fascinated Glory with all of her battle tales, and there was nobody who could match Whisper's girlish enthusiasm for a fine weapon like Glory could. And when Whisper found out Glory was a synth, she literally did not bat an eye. She treated her no differently, she didn't act strange about it, she simply didn't acknowledge it as any sort of issue worthy of remark. That really endeared Whisper to Glory and everyone at HQ. Synth or not, Glory was a treasured friend, and they were two peas in a pod from day one.

So the girls walked ahead and giggled together and Deacon and Drummer Boy looked at each other grinning and they didn't have to speak to communicate with each other. It was nice. It had been a long time, a _very_ long time, since the streets of Boston had been filled with the laughter of ladies, bright and sweet. Only ladies as deadly as Whisper and Glory could walk at night and laugh so carelessly. It was innocence and violence hand-in-hand. It was the essence of the Wasteland. It was stunning, and Deacon felt his heart lift. The evening was already off to a good start.

Beacon Hill was fuller than he'd ever seen it. The string lights that hung across every high point of the settlement cast it all in a warm, comforting glow. The main square was packed with bodies, the bartender was slinging hooch like a champ, and the air was filled with lively music coming from a brightly colored jukebox in the corner.

"Wow," Deacon chewed on a toothpick idly while taking in the scene. "I didn't even know stuff like this still happened in the Commonwealth."

"The human spirit is pervasive, perhaps most of all in it's desire to party. No nuclear holocaust can stop it." Whisper smiled. She was already starting to move to the music, twirling the hem of her skirt and bouncing on her heels. A tall woman in a straw hat emerged above the crowd, walking towards Whisper. It must have been her caravan friend. Whisper lit up and went to greet the woman. Glory and Drummer Boy hopped over to the bar to get drinks, and Deacon was left to do what he did best: watch.

It was warm, with a cool breeze, and people from all walks of life had gathered here for music, drinks, and dancing. It wasn't often that Deacon got to see this side of the Commonwealth. Normal people, just trying to get by. People who weren't interested in fighting, or dying, or pillaging. Life in the Commonwealth was almost harder if you _didn't_ attach yourself to some cause, some organization, or… raiders. How did you find the will to get up every morning and fight against a world that wanted to kill you for… for _what?_ The mundane struggles of everyday life? Family, kids? He'd wanted those things, once. But he wasn't cut out for it. He admired anyone who was.

The four Railroad agents shared drinks, clinking their classes together and cheering good health. Whiskey relaxed the tensions Whisper carried at the base of her neck, and made her eyes shine so bright it hurt to look directly at them. Just being around Whisper softened Glory's rougher edges, and the liquor helped even more. He'd never seen either one so relaxed, so at ease. Whisper grabbed Glory's hand and pulled her out into the center of the dancefloor, and they lost themselves in joyful movement.

He watched them dance, and all the rads and blood and grime faded away from the world for a moment. Whisper's black bob, thick and shiny, swung around her face as she tossed her head from side to side, eyes closed, smiling, ecstatic. He'd seen the way those eyes scanned a hostile zone in battle, shrewd, perceptive of the smallest hints of danger. He'd seen her snap a man's neck. He'd seen her grin gleefully as a well-aimed frag grenade blew muties into chunks and shreds. She was violent - in a world less cruel, she would've been considered sadistic, probably. But right now, dancing under the string lights with her friend, she looked so innocent, so carefree. Her pink dress twirled around her shapely hips, in hypnotic opposition to the way her body moved. Glory grabbed Whisper's hand, raised her arm, and spun Whisper around. They dissolved into giggles and for a moment, Deacon was staggered. Memories flashed behind his eyelids. Memories of another girl who danced so freely, who laughed so brightly, whose skin was sun-warmed and sweet. _Barbara_. The pain was real, tangible, physical. He gripped the edge of the bar until his knuckles turned white.

"Hey, D." A sweet voice in his ear. His eyes had been squeezed shut so tight that he hadn't noticed Whisper sliding over to him. Glory was still dancing.

"Hey," he smiled weakly. "You girls look like you're having fun."

"Yeah, but we'd be having more fun if you came and danced with us." There was a distinct flirtatious lilt to her words. He swallowed hard.

"Oh no, no, no. You don't want that. See, I'm _way_ too good of a dancer. Like, dangerously good. You see me dance, your head will explode and you'll burst in to flames."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take." Her lips curved into the sweetest smirk. It was clear what was going on. She was testing him, pushing him, dipping her toes in the water of outright flirtation. It was precarious, and exhilarating - her heart was in her throat, and she was sure his was, too.

He knew he shouldn't push back, shouldn't take her bait, especially not with the memory of Barbara so fresh on his mind. As tends to happen when love is blooming, he couldn't stop himself. It just felt _right._ Slowly, deliberately, he brought his hand up and brushed a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear tenderly.

"Not me." He spoke softly. "That's a real pretty head, and I'd prefer if it stayed intact."

She looked up at him with wide eyes, sweet eyes. They were so close. She hadn't really expected him to take her bait, and if she moved just a little closer she could kiss him, and she was so paralyzed by the urge to do so that she couldn't seem to move at all. _Those damn sunglasses._ She just wanted to look him in the eyes. Delicately, she placed her fingers on the left corner of the frame of the sunglasses and began to lift. Deacon felt like he was in a trance - but not enough to let this happen. _Not the glasses, doll._ Not yet. Before she could lift them, he grabbed her hand and lowered it slowly.

She smiled, like she'd known it was coming. She didn't really expect to separate Deacon from his sunglasses, but she had to try, at least. It was hot, and crowded, and the music was loud and lively, but they hung suspended in gentle still and silence.

"Will you walk with me? I need some fresh air." Her voice seemed very far away, and yet at the same time close enough that he could feel it against his skin.

"Yeah. Fresh air. Fresh, irradiated, nuclear wasteland air. Let's go."

He followed her out the gates of Bunker Hill. Glory made eye contact with him as they left - she had likely been watching them for a while. He couldn't read her expression. Glory was like that. Once they had cleared the gate, Whisper walked for a moment and found a nice low stone wall to sit on.

She smoothed her skirt over her legs as she sat, and reached in to her shirt pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. _Fresh air._ He lit her cigarette for her, shielding it from the wind with his hand, and for a moment they sat in silence. She looked so serene, so unbothered - it was strange. But her every movement carried a meaningful weight, and he had the sense that she had something particular to say to him. Her eyes were open and clear, and he could see depths of vulnerability uncharted.

"I can't stop thinking about what the Doctor said," she laughed and shook her head as though chiding herself for letting it bother her.

 _"Whisper -"_ Deacon interjected, but she wasn't done speaking.

"When I first found out I was pregnant, with Shaun, I… I wasn't happy. I didn't want him. Well, not _him_ specifically, but… a child. I wasn't ready."

Deacon's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

"I already had doubts about Nate, about getting married, about being a… a housewife. He was away when I found out I was pregnant. Deployed, with the Army. I felt so sick, so scared… I cried for days."

Deacon clenched his fist. _I'm going to kick his ass when I get back to HQ._

"It changed, of course. It always does. Just… completely. Shaun grew inside of me and it was like… I loved him _so much_. I knew that no matter what else happened in my life, I would have him. I would be his mom, and he would be my boy. Even if I lost everything else, even if I did end up being unhappy with Nate, Shaun would be mine. My partner in crime. The day he was born… it was the best day of my life."

Smoke rose above her, a delicate plume snaking up to the night sky. She'd never seen the stars like that, before the war. So clear, so vibrant, so _many._ Her voice was the only sound around for miles - the music, the cicadas, gunshots in the distance, nuclear breeze… all faded to nothing beneath the weight of her voice.

"When I first came out of the Vault, I had a breakdown. I mean… what can a person really do, in that situation? The end of the world happened, and I saw it all. My husband was shot, in front of my own eyes, and my son was taken from me. That was the worst part. _They took him from me._ My baby. Who I knew I would always have, no matter what. They were the what. It had seemed more likely to me that the bombs would fall and destroy the world than that my baby would be taken away from me. My brain just couldn't process it, any of it."

A lump rose in his throat, hard and heavy. He knew what happened next, because he had been there. Dez had been tracking some Institute agents on the surface, and discovered they were headed to Vault 111. _Follow them, Deacon. See what they're doing, what they want there. That's your job._ He watched them come in and leave, empty handed both times, with absolutely no clue what they did inside. And then she came. Still thawing out, she rose into the nuclear sunshine via the Vault elevator. He watched her take one step, then another, then she fell on to her knees in the dirt. He heard her scream. Anguished, _raw_ , pure despair. He would never forget that sound, not until the day he died.

"The Vault was so close to my home, to Sanctuary. Somehow, I made it to my old house - instinct or something, I don't know. I don't remember any of that. I went inside, and everything is falling apart - the roof, the walls, all the furniture. I recognize it, but I don't. There's one thing, though. In his room. His crib. It was blue, with a red spaceship mobile. I curled up on the ground by his crib, and I didn't move for days. Probably a whole week."

He had to keep his distance, of course, so he saw her enter the house and stay for a very long while, but he didn't see what happened inside. Probably a good thing. It was bad enough just hearing about it. He felt sick, dizzy, like the ground was churning under his feet.

"I think I was trying to just… let myself die. I didn't sleep, or eat, or move. I just lay there, staring off in to space, _existing_ , and willing myself to disappear. We had a Mr. Handy, Codsworth. He was there, poor guy, he'd been alive and awake the whole 200 years. He tried to get me up, to get me to move, but eventually he gave up. I just didn't respond, to anything. And then, well… nothing happened, really. There was no moment where suddenly I realized I had to get up and get out there, keep fighting, find my son. No vision showed up to speak to me, I wasn't divinely inspired or anything. I just got sick of it. I just stood up, and walked out, and kept walking. Shaun is likely already dead, or worse. I've already accepted that, in my heart. I've already gone through the mourning process. I won't let myself believe that he's still alive… it will just hurt so much more when I find out he isn't. But I have to keep going, I have to keep looking, I have to keep seeking him out. Until I hold his remains in my own two hands, then I'll stop. Because he's _mine_. My partner in crime."

She looked up at him. He was white as a ghost, all the blood drained out of his face.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you all of this. It's some pretty heavy shit to unload on you. It just feels good to talk to someone about it… or at someone about it. And you're the lucky winner! I just… for Carrington to imply that I don't care about finding Shaun, that I'm not working hard enough… it hurts _so bad_ because I'm scared that it's true."

Before he even realized what he was doing, he'd wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her off the stone wall, bringing her body against his in a crushing embrace. One hand was brought up to hold her cheek, catching ropes of hair in-between grasping fingers, and the other pressed against her back, flat-palm, supporting her and pulling her in deeper all at once. Her cigarette fell to the ground, extinguishing itself in a puddle, and he kissed her. Hard, deep, and hungry. She made a quiet surprised noise, a delicious _mmf,_ more a feeling than a sound into his lips, but there was not a second's hesitation before she returned the fervor of his kiss in equal part. He felt her hands grasping at his back, grabbing handfuls of fabric like she was scared something was going to come and try to pry them apart and drag her away. She tasted like Nuka Cherry and heartache. He was drowning.

It was an instant and an eternity before they broke away, both gasping for air, foreheads pressed together like they didn't really want to separate. How long had it been since his lips had touched another? Even longer for her. Two hundred and ten years since she'd been kissed, _properly_ kissed. He could feel it. He was still riding the wave of feel-good brain chemicals for a moment longer, and when it let up, he realized what he'd done.

"Woah…" he whispered, taking a step back. "I'm sorry. I didn't… _holy hell_ …"

Her eyes were wide, raptured, as she brought her fingers up to touch her lips like she was making sure they were still there.

"Deacon, it's okay..."

"No," he groaned. "That was _way_ out of line of me to do, for a thousand different reasons. Listen, I just…" he ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. "You've been through a lot, and you're still kicking ass. I've never met anyone… I mean, look, everyone's got some sort of shitty fucked-up past, Lord knows I've been through some shit too…" _(and that's why you can't do this, Deacon, you can't be with her, you can't fall for her)_ "I'm _so_ sorry for what the Doctor said. Seriously, I'm going to kill him when we get back to HQ. He really has no idea what he's talking about. You're so strong, and you've been through so much to find your son, and he _is_ still alive and we _are_ going to find him and you'll be together again. I promise. Just…" he looked down. "Forget about that whole… _thing_ … that just happened with us. Please. I'm sorry."

She closed her eyes, smiled, and shook her head. When she opened her eyes again it was like she was a different person. The veil was back up, and that minuscule razor-sharp edge. All that vulnerability, all that pain - gone, without a trace. _God fucking dammit, Deacon._

"What thing? I don't know what you're talking about." She was smirking and her eyebrow was raised. He sighed. _Yep, that's my girl._

"Well, thanks for coming out here with me. I'm going back in - if you reconsider that whole dancing thing, you'll know where to find me." She was trying hard to sound nonchalant, and it would've been convincing to anyone else. He said nothing, and watched her as she walked back to the gates of Bunker Hill, twirling her skirt and kicking rocks, until he was left alone out in the street with nothing but a deep, gnawing feeling in his chest.

He didn't follow her back inside until much later, and she made a point not to even look at him when he did. Glory knew. Whisper didn't tell her, of course. She was just perceptive, especially when it came to Deacon and Whisper. They left in the wee hours of the morning, and Whisper walked ahead on the way back to HQ, shoulder-to-shoulder with Drummer Boy, singing drunkenly. Glory and Deacon walked behind. She spoke without turning to look at him.

"She makes me feel _human._ Don't hurt her."


	5. Chapter 5

He expected more from the courser. He should've known, though, that even things that seem like a literal suicide mission are easy as pie with Whisper by his side. Really, it was harder to fight through the building full of Gunners that preceded the courser. He wasn't that tough, and he had one trick - Stealth Boy. _Come on, man. I invented Stealth Boys! Well, not really, but I might as well have._ They took care of him in short order, _and_ they helped to free the runaway synth that the courser was after. Whisper pushed the dead courser's head to the side with her boot, and flipped open a switchblade to dig the chip out of his skull. She rose with the chip, dripping with blood and covered in chunks of brain matter, grinning proudly.

"We did it!" She was beaming.

"Yeah, we sure did."

They were right about not telling Desdemona until afterwards. He swore, when Whisper showed up with the chip, Dez looked like she was about to start doing backflips she was so excited. And Tinker Tom could probably smell wires and circuitry, because he was hovering over their shoulders before they could even think _hey, maybe this is something that Tom can help us with._ He could, he explained twitchily, decode the courser chip _and_ provide them with the plans necessary to build the teleporter that would use the code from the courser chip to teleport Whisper directly inside of the Institute.

So Whisper, Deacon, Dez, and Tom all travelled to Mercer safehouse. A teeny-tiny settlement very far north, outfitted with only the bare minimum. A concrete bunker, a couple of rickety wooden shacks, beds enough for all of them, and a workbench. They settled in for the long haul - they would stay at Mercer, working on building the Teleporter, until it was done and they were ready to send Whisper in.

Deacon wasn't thrilled about the prospect of spending weeks in such close quarters with Whisper, not after what had happened at Bunker Hill. He felt sick, dizzy, confused when he remembered how he kissed her under the stars that night. He didn't regret it as much as he should have, and he felt overwhelming guilt. He'd started something that could not be stopped, something that would only end painfully for both of them. If he knew Whisper like he thought he did, she was the type who liked the pain, but still… the poor woman had been through enough already. It seemed like the universe was out to hurt her - and now for him to lay it on, too? Deacon and self-loathing were good old friends, but he hadn't expected to be reacquainted with it so soon.

They didn't spend 100% of their time at Mercer - Whisper would lose it, he thought, if she were forced to stay still in one place for so long. Every so often, Whisper and Deacon dipped out to go gather some components for the transporter, which was a _really_ nice excuse to go out and kill some stuff.

The lie came up as most of his lies do. He could feel himself getting closer to her, in a real, intimate way, and it was oddly aggravating. They were searching for a biometric scanner for the transporter in an old hospital, wasting ferals along the way. He watched her kill, and felt tender affection inside of him like a sickness. He wanted to push her buttons, and push her away at the same time. That was one thing he knew how to do exceedingly well. They were crouched behind a desk, clearing the room ahead.

"In a way, you're lucky, you know."

She popped a fresh fusion cell in her rifle as ferals groaned in the distance. She said nothing, but raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"Some people at HQ are jealous." He spoke as he aimed down his scope. "You took the Big Nap, and everyone you know is long gone." He felt anger radiate from her shoulders. This was cold, even for him, after what she'd told him at Bunker Hill. "Hey - hear me out on the silver lining."

"This had better be some damn good silver lining, D." Her voice was sharp and stretched with tension. _Watch it._

"The Institute is big, and scary, and has eyes everywhere. If a human in the Railroad slips up, they expose friends and loved ones to danger. You're safe from that."

"Yeah, because the Institute already has the _one_ person in this world that I actually care about." _Shaun. Her partner in crime. "_ Where are you going with this? Cause all your'e doing so far is pissing me off."

"I know, sorry. This is coming out all wrong. All I'm saying is, you have nothing to lose, and that's kinda nice. It doesn't matter so much for me and Glory and all the other synths, but some of the human members of the Railroad, they have to be careful what missions they go on, how close to the Institute they get, otherwise it's their families on the line."

 _Boom._ There it was. He watched her carefully for any movement, any sign, any twitch. Her face was set in stone, unreadable, and singularly focused on killing ferals. A rotting hand reached out to grasp for his throat and he realized that he should probably be more focused on killing ferals too, not watching Whisper for a hint of a reaction to his lie. For a while they fought in silence, rotting ghoul corpses piling up at their feet.

Her laser rifle was still smoking, Vault suit and leathers splattered with hot blood, when she turned to him after the last feral tanked. She was gasping for breath, her chest heaving, exhausted from combat.

"Are you telling me that you're a synth?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, I know I should have told you sooner, I just -"

She held up her hand, cutting him off. Her gaze was very intense, but otherwise unreadable.

"No. You don't have any obligation to share that information with anyone, not even me. You have never had any responsibility to tell me, not now or ever. It doesn't change anything." The kiss at Bunker Hill flashed through his mind, and he was sure it did hers, too. Her voice softened. "But… I appreciate that you did. Thank you."

"Well, aren't you gracious. Now I know why Glory likes you so much. There's one more thing… since we're partners, you should have this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny, folded scrap of paper. None of his lies ever came without preparation or forethought… or props. He liked props. "It's my recall code."

Just the fact that the Institute gave synths recall codes was proof enough that they were evil, in Whisper's book. A single phrase to shut a person down, to wipe them clean, to render them catatonic. It was inhumane, worse than death. She looked at the paper in his outstretched hand, and then looked up at him.

 _"No."_

"Look, I know it's not pretty, but you need to have it. It's an issue of safety. For you, for me, for the whole Railroad. Take it."

He brandished the scrap of paper, and she still did not reach out to take it.

"Deacon, I don't want it. There is no scenario in which I would ever use it. I'll wring your neck with my own two hands before I do that to you."

"That's selfish. Using it could save lives."

She knew he was right, he saw it in her eyes. She was angry, and confused, and hurting. The thought of actually using a recall code, on Deacon of all people, made her nauseous. But neither was she irresponsible enough to risk the lives of potentially everyone in the Railroad. He had her wedged firmly in-between a rock and a hard place. He saw her struggle, he saw her pain, and knew the lie had done it's job. For him, at least. _You're a sick fuck, Deacon. You get off on this._

 _"Fine,"_ she hissed, and snatched the paper from his hand. He watched her crush it in her fingers and shove it unceremoniously in to one of the leather pouches on her belt. He'd never seen her angrier, and it felt good. Her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled, and _god damn_ she looked good. She turned away, cold and silent and steaming. They recovered the biometric scanner and traveled back to Mercer in their first ever _uncomfortable_ silence.

He couldn't have picked a worse (or better, if you've got as strong of a self-destructive streak as Deacon does) time to fuck with her. If she had been scared before, about the courser, it was nothing compared to how scared she was now. She didn't sleep - he knew, cause their beds were separated by a 'wall' of thin wooden planks cobbled together, and he could hear her tossing and turning all night (cause of course, he wasn't sleeping either.) She didn't seem to eat much. Her cheeks sunk in on themselves, her eye sockets grew dark and shadowed. They were building a massive transporter to quite literally send her in to the belly of the beast. Nobody could guess what awaited her there. Some sort of truth about her son was guaranteed, and Deacon could tell she was scared of what she would find either way. She couldn't let herself hope that Shaun was alive, but he would catch her gazing idly at the transporter and chewing on her lip as tears welled in her eyes. She wasn't really prepared to face and accept the reality of his death. Besides that, there was a very good chance she would be transported inside the Institute and never come back at all. Death or torture likely awaited her there. Even if Shaun _was_ alive, they probably wouldn't just let her walk out with him. There really _was_ no good outcome, but she had to do it, she had to try. For her little boy.

Deacon kept hoping, in the back of his mind, that something would go wrong with the transporter and _oops never mind the thing is broken looks like we're not sending you to the inside of the Institute after all!_ Dez, too, he could tell, was torn between the excitement of actually sending someone _inside_ and the dread of potentially, likely, losing her newest and best agent. And Tinker Tom, damn him, kept right on plugging along with all of his wires and circuits and chem-twitch until finally, one cool evening, he announced excitedly that the hulking beast of a machine would be ready to use by morning.

Whisper walked out into the fields surrounding Mercer, alone, and Deacon could see the light of her Pip-Boy like a bright star in the night. She was recording holotapes, in case she didn't come back. One for Nick, and one for Glory. None for Deacon, of course. She would give the tapes to Desdemona. Deacon could still get his hands on them if he wanted to - which he did, because he was a scumbag. Then he watched Whisper sit down, cross-legged in the tall grass. She was listening to a holotape this time, not recording one. Deacon could hear the faint sounds of a baby cooing, and he knew what it was she was listening to.

They all went to bed early that night. Bed, not sleep. Whisper didn't toss and turn, she was still, but he could tell she wasn't asleep. He could especially tell she wasn't asleep when he heard the mattress creak and her feet hit the ground lightly. It felt like some ghostly hand reached inside Deacon's chest and squeezed tight whatever it could grab ahold of - he couldn't breathe, and his heart stopped. She stood in his doorway, backlit by the moon, and spoke like her name.

 _"D, you awake?"_

Wordlessly, he rolled over and lifted up the tattered quilt, making room for her beside him on the bed. Even after deliberately trying to push her away, she still came to him. He wouldn't fight it. Not now. Not _tonight._ Honestly, he probably needed the comfort more than she did. Whisper was strong, Whisper was steel. Whisper walked over, blind in the dark, and slid under the covers next to him. She was wearing nothing but an oversized cotton t-shirt, and he could feel the silk of her skin as she came up against him. She made herself small, curling up in to the muscled wall of his chest, and buried her face into his shirt. Every movement was weak, trembling. She didn't have to speak for him to feel her fear.

" _Hey,"_ he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair reassuringly. "Listen, you're gonna be fine. I've never met anyone tougher than you. Those goons at the Institute oughtta be shaking in their boots right now cause they have no idea what's coming for them tomorrow."

She chuckled, weakly, and he could feel the sound vibrate deep within him. He knew what she was thinking, knew what she was feeling. He knew what she needed to hear, and he was gonna tell her, even if they both knew it was all lies. The least he could do was lie for good.

"And you're gonna find Shaun, and he's gonna be _so_ happy to see you." He felt her body relax a little bit more with each word. She sighed.

"Bring an extra gun for him. The kid's gonna be a natural shot. You two'll pump the Institute full of holes on your way out."

She laughed, her fingers digging into the thin cotton of his t-shirt. She looked up at him. For the first time, she saw him without his sunglasses on, though it was too dark to make out much. What she could see looked like a different man. Deacon with his glasses was slick, unreadable, a spy. Deacon without his glasses was… kind, and very weary. Just a man. She understood why he wore them all the time, she didn't blame him. They suited him. But she couldn't stop herself from reaching up to brush her fingers gently along his temple. He was quiet, and very still. It seemed that he was surprised, but more with himself than with her.

"If I don't come back…"

"You will." Their bodies were flush, but he squeezed her tight like he was trying to pull her in even closer. She didn't believe him - _he_ didn't believe him - but it was nice to hear it, anyway.

"I can't forget about it. The kiss."

"I know." As he said the words, he felt the strangest feeling inside of his chest. Like his heart was sinking and being lifted up at the same time, pulled in two separate directions, struggling and straining both ways. "Me either."

He knew then, like he'd known when he kissed her, like he'd known when he first saw her, that he could try to fight it all he wanted, but it was inevitable. He _would_ try to fight it, kicking and screaming and gnashing teeth because he wasn't the type to go down easy, but nothing he could do would stem the tide of this. He wasn't ready for it, so he would lie to her and treat her bad and light up a thousand neon _I'M FUCKED UP, YOU DO NOT WANT THIS_ warning signs, but the proof was in the pudding. _Hello, words. I'm actions, and I'm speaking awfully loud._ He was the one who grabbed her and kissed her. He was the one who invited her in to bed - he could've pretended to be asleep, he could've got up and talked to her, but instead she was in his arms because that was what _he_ wanted. _This is gonna get messy, and I'm sorry._

Blessedly, she said nothing else, and he listened to her breathing slow down steadily until he could tell she was asleep. It was the first decent night's sleep either of them had gotten since they'd come to Mercer. When he woke in the morning, she was no longer in his bed. She was downstairs, with Dez, drinking coffee out of a tin mug and smoking a cigarette. Whisper was tense, wound so tight. Her foot tapped nervously and her mouth was drawn into a hard line. Deacon muttered a sleep good morning at the two girls, and went to help Tinker Tom. The chems fueled his genius but also caused him to make the occasional stupid mistake, and nobody wanted Whisper being transported into outer space or splattered across the Institute in little molecular chunks. The machine was ready, and appeared to be in good condition.

As the sun rose, the four gathered around the transporter platform. Whisper was wearing her Vault suit, and had her laser rifle strapped to her back, a 10mm on her thigh and a switchblade in her boot. It was more to make her feel better - if the Institute wanted to kill her, none of those weapons would save her. She stepped on to the platform, Dez watching carefully, Tom fiddling with the knobs on the control panel.

"Whenever you're ready, agent. Tune your radio to the classical music station."

They'd discovered that the classical music radio station was the conduit for the transporter signal. The Institute had a nice sense for dramatic flair, at least. Deacon saw Whisper swallow, hard, raise her Pip-Boy, and turn the radio knob. Dramatic orchestral swings swelled, and Tom powered up the machine.

Electricity crackled at Whisper's boots, great white-blue arcs of it lapping around her legs, sparking and twisting and cutting. A fine halo of frizzy black hairs began to rise around her head and her eyes grew wide, lit from beneath with that eerie blue glow. Dez was talking to her, shouting instructions and important reminders and boss-stuff over the low roar of the electricity and machinery. Whisper wasn't looking at Dez. Whisper had her eyes locked on to Deacon, desperate, holding on for dear life. She looked so scared, _god_ she looked so scared. Instinctively, he took a step towards her, towards the transporter platform. He could feel the electricity crackling on his skin, taste it sharp and metallic on his tongue. The transporter filled him with overwhelming, oppressive noise. He had to clench his fists at his side to stop himself from reaching out for her, grabbing her, pulling her off the platform and into the safety of his arms. _Whisper is strong. Whisper is steel._ She didn't look like steel, not right now. A low hum began to radiate out from the transporter platform, more a mighty vibration that shook the ground than an actual sound. She still hadn't taken her eyes off of him. He was her lifeline. Up until the last minute, she was fixed on him, holding on to him. A massive tidal wave of energy, frothing and swirling, rose up from her feet. Her eyes were wilder and more desperate than ever, and at the last moment, she opened her mouth like she wanted to say something. The wave swept her away, a loud crack echoing throughout the valley, and she was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

_"Hey Nicky. It's me, your girl Blue. If you're listening to this, it means something happened to me at the Institute and I didn't come back. I wanted to leave you a message to tell you that I love you, so much. You were the first person, the only person, willing to go out of their way to help me when I got out of the Vault. There are no words for how much it means to me, everything you've done. Don't put up with too much crap from those bigots in Diamond CIty. They don't deserve to have you. Never let anyone make you believe that you aren't good, that you aren't doing good. God, Nicky, you do nothing but good. The 'Wealth is a better place because you're in it. Give Ellie my best. I'll miss you, and I love you."'_

Deacon sat silent, sick. He'd pilfered the tapes from Desdemona's desk and dipped out of HQ to find a quiet place with a working 'd already planned on listening to the tapes as soon as he saw Whisper recording them (he liked to know people's secrets, hers especially,) but he hadn't anticipated this horrible gnawing hunger to just hear her voice. That's all. He just needed to hear her voice. It had been five days, but it felt like a lifetime. Had it ever been any different than this? Was there ever a time where she was here, _with_ him, her voice vibrating through his bones and not coming out of a terminal? _I am so fucked if she doesn't come back. And I am so fucked if she does._ He ejected Nick's tape, and popped in Glory's.

" _Hey Glory, it's Whisper. I'm sure you know what happened by now. I'm so sorry. I failed you all, and I'm so sorry. Thank you for placing your trust in me, thank you for having faith in me. And thank you, Glory, for being my friend. I never had many of those, even before the war. You are so special, and such an incredible person. You can shake the whole Commonwealth. You are a force. Don't make yourself smaller, not for anyone. I'll miss you, but I'm sure I'll still be able to hear your minigun wherever it is that I am, and it will make everything better. You are my sister, forever. Tell everyone back at HQ that I'm sorry, and tell Deacon…"_ for a moment her voice cracked, faltered, like she couldn't find the words. Deacon felt the ground drop out from underneath him. " _… tell him thanks, for me? For being a good partner, and always having my back. Thanks, Glory. I love you. Bye."_

He returned the tapes to Dez's desk. Whisper had left most of her belongings in a footlocker at HQ, only taking the bare necessities with her on the transporter. He began frantically rifling through her things, searching for that little tiny scrap of paper. His 'recall code.' She hadn't read it yet, there was no way. He would find it and get rid it of before she could, and tell her the truth, that he lied and he had no idea why and he was so sorry and by the way I think I'm falling in love with you but I have like 12 tons of emotional baggage also I'm a pathological liar can you handle that? But he lost momentum the further he got in his search. It wasn't there, the recall code. She'd either thrown it away, or taken it with her. In all the literally countless lies he'd ever told, he'd never regretted one or wished he could take it back. Not until now. He sighed and sat back on his heels. _You made this bed, Deacon._

Soon, it had been a week since she'd left. He was drinking, a lot. If he wasn't working, he was drinking. It was the only way he could get to sleep - drink himself in to a stupor and pass out. Otherwise he just lay there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, filled with _her_ and a thousand different anxieties. She'll come back, right? She _has_ to come back. She's the rogue variable. The woman out of time. She's done a thousand un-doable things and emerged beaming gorgeous. This was no different, this couldn't be any different. Every night, the world blurred to nothing in a drunken haze, he lay lifeless trying _so_ hard to smother himself in the tactile memories of her he had. He gathered up every sensation from every moment he'd physically touched her and drowned himself in them, honing his entire universe down into a laser-focus on the little things. The rise and fall of her chest as she slept against him. The taut curve where waist expanded to hips, and the way it felt beneath his hands. The taste of her lips (Nuka Cherry and heartache) and the smell of her hair, sweet and gentle. The blood - _god,_ all the blood. Was that like, an intimacy thing? He felt like it was. To see someone's blood, the vitality that fills their veins and runs from the deepest recesses of their heart to the tips of their fingers and toes, to feel the warmth of it on your hands… even her blood would be welcome now. And every so often, in these inebriated twilight moments, tactile memories of another girl slipped in, a girl who'd come before and was no more. That was usually when he had to stumble outside to be sick.

Thirteen days. Thirteen long, horrible days, and finally a runner stumbled in to HQ, breathless and disheveled.

"Goodneighbor," they gasped. "Someone saw her in Goodneighbor."

Deacon and Glory locked eyes, and no two people had ever leaped out of their chairs and rocketed out the door faster. He heard a strange buzzing in his ears, a pressure building between his temples.

"Something's wrong, Glory." They traveled through the streets to Goodneighbor as fast as they could, guns drawn, tense and frantic nervous. "What's she doing there? Why didn't she come to us first?"

"I don't know. It's not like her. Let's find her so we can get this figured out."

Daisy had seen Whisper enter Goodneighbor two days ago, but that was all the info the ghoul had. Charlie hadn't seen her. At the Rexford, Clair Hutchins stared up with them at that same old sour face she always had.

"Don't know her. Haven't seen her. Even if I had, I can't just go around giving out information about my clients to strangers."

Deacon was just about to lose it and snap on the old woman when Fred Allen called out from the lobby behind them.

"Hey! You guys looking for the pretty girl in blue?"

The chem dealer strolled over. Deacon blinked. There was no reason for _him_ to have any intel on Whisper, but he wasn't about to turn it down.

"Yes. Have you seen her?"

"Yeah, she bought some Jet from me yesterday. Think she has a room upstairs."

"Fred," Deacon spoke low and sharp, a vein throbbing in his forehead. "No offense, but… are you high right now? She doesn't really buy chems. Are you _sure_ it was her?"

Fred rolled his eyes. "No, I'm not high, and yes, I'm sure. You don't' forget a lady like that. And for someone who doesn't really buy chems, she sure was, uh, buying chems."

Deacon had never felt more tightly wound in his life. He stalked back over to the front desk, and Clair looked _exactly_ like someone who had just been caught in a lie.

"Look, lady. That guy over there just told me that the woman I'm looking for has a room here. I don't know what you want. Do you want caps? I'll give you caps," he dug frantically in his pocket and dumped a pouch of caps onto the counter. 150, maybe 200. "We're not strangers, we're her friends and she needs us, she could be hurt or sick. And we are both _very_ heavily armed so I _strongly_ suggest you take these _fucking_ caps and tell us where she's at."

Glory blinked. Deacon wasn't an angry person, by nature. She'd never seen him like this. Clair scowled and slid the caps off the counter in to her hand.

"Fine. Top floor, first room on the right."

They bounded up the stairs. Everything was grey in this godforsaken hotel. The walls were grey, the floors were grey, the light was grey. It was just fucking _drab_ and it made him feel queasy and he hurt to think of Whisper here, alone, hurt and scared and… and _using_? Deacon didn't _like_ chems, just because he'd seen how they could rip a person up, change them completely, steal their entire life away. Whisper agreed with him, he knew, and he'd never seen her use, not even a hit of Med-X when her injuries were bad. She liked to _feel_ , everything, as much as she could, even if it was pain. Whatever had happened to her inside the Institute… she _really_ wanted to forget it. She wanted to fry her brain, smash it in to tiny pieces, obliterate the trauma that played itself over and over again behind her eyelids. Anything else that got lost in the process, well, it was an acceptable causality. _God, please let her bounce back from this. Please let her still be my Whisper._ He fumbled with the doorknob. His hands were shaking.

The room was empty, dark, and cold. There was a candle stump on the dresser, but it had long ago burned out. There were signs of life in the room - the bedclothes had been disturbed, a leather pack was tossed on the worn red sofa (Whisper's pack,) and a pair of boots lay unlaced near the door (Whisper's boots) along with her precious laser rifle. But no Whisper.

 _"Oh my god,"_ Glory breathed. He heard her gun drop to the rickety wooden floor, and he followed her gaze. What he saw sucked all the air out of the room.

Whisper was sitting on the floor, wedged firmly in the small space between the dresser and the sofa. Her knees were pulled in close to her chest and her head hung limply over her left shoulder, strands of tangled and torn black hair falling over her face like a curtain. She'd unzipped her Vault suit's collar - her collarbones and neck appeared emaciated, dry, hollow. Her skin was grey, just like everything in the damned hotel. A handful of discarded inhalers lay on the ground next to her.

" _Oh my god, Whisper, no…"_ Glory ran over and dropped to her knees next to Whisper. Whisper appeared unresponsive - her eyes were open, heavy-lidded, glazed over. She wasn't _seeing_. The lights were on - but the windows were boarded, the floorboards ripped up, the insides ransacked, and nobody had been home for a long while.

" _Hey, hey, hey,"_ Glory grabbed Whisper's hand, using her thumb to grab a pulse, and gently slapped her cheek. "Whisper, baby, it's me, Glory. Can you hear me? Come on, _come on..._ " She grabbed her face and pushed one of her eyelids up. Whisper's eyes were bloodshot, the whites a sick yellow. Glory put her ear to Whisper's chest, to listen to her breathing.

Deacon had been clenching his fists so hard that his nails were digging in to his palms, drawing blood. He was angry. Angry with the Institute, for whatever the fuck they did to turn the Lady Reaper in to _this_ shriveled husk. Angry with the Railroad, for sending her in there with little-to-no concern for her well-being. Angry with Whisper for using, though of course he didn't blame her, he couldn't. Mostly he was angry withhimself for _letting_ this happen. _You're supposed to protect the people you care about._ There were a thousand different things he could've done, a thousand opportunities for him to step in and stop it from coming to this, mitigate the harm. Even as he thought that, he knew it wasn't true. She would've had to go to the Institute eventually to find her son. It didn't make him any less angry. They could have done more. The rage boiled over in him and before he knew what was happening he'd punched a hole clean through the decrepit wall next to him.

The sound seemed to bring Whisper back to Earth. She gasped like she'd been underwater and was just coming up for air, and life returned to her eyes. The first thing she saw was Glory. Her eyes were big and scared and skittish, like a wild animal. It took a moment for her mind to register what her eyes were seeing, and when she did, that's when the tears came.

Glory threw her arms around her friend, and Whisper sobbed into Glory's shoulder. _Shh, shh,_ Glory stroked Whisper's hair, holding her tight and rocking her gently. Deacon had never seen someone cry like that. It was the sound of a soul that had been sundered. Raw anguish, childlike, and the sound cut through to his bones. He felt distinctly uncomfortable, nauseous, like he was seeing something he shouldn't be seeing. Whisper's hands clawed up Glory's back to grab fistfuls of her jacket, and through the sobs, words emerged.

 _Not my son… not my son… not my son…_

Glory looked back at him. "Go get Dr. Amari. We need her help."

While Deacon hurried across the street to the Memory Den, Glory helped Whisper in to bed. The crying gave way to sniffles and hiccups, and Glory stroked her forehead gently and held her trembling hands. Neither spoke. Just quiet, and rest, and healing.

Deacon returned with Dr. Amari in short order. Amari had helped Whisper before - she was all too familiar with what the woman from Vault 111 had endured during her short time in the Commonwealth, and eager to assist. She hooked Whisper up to an IV drip, for the dehydration and to flush the drugs out, and alternated administration of Stimpaks and Addictol. Whisper was quiet and still. She appeared very tired, now that the drugs were leaving her system. Jet doesn't allow for much sleep.

"Has she ever used before?" Amari asked, looking over her shoulder at the two Railroad agents who had huddled together, tense.

"No," Glory spoke. "Never. We would know."

"She'll be okay, right?" When Deacon had punched the wall, the skin on his knuckles had torn. He felt no pain, but blood dripped down his fingertips.

"Physically? Yes, thanks to you two. Mentally, emotionally? Time will tell. It's not likely, but it is possible that this bender could have a lasting effect on her brain. Not to mention whatever it was that drove her to this." Amari looked down at her patient, eyes full of pity. "Poor thing. She's endured so much already… honestly, I'm surprised she didn't turn to chems sooner."

The color was returning to Whisper's skin, slowly but surely. She slipped into sleep, and Amari packed up and left, leaving instructions and supplies for her continued care. Rest was what she needed the most now, the doctor explained. That much was obvious - Whisper slept for nine hours, and neither Glory nor Deacon left the hotel room. Hours blurred together in a gentle haze - they turned the radio on quietly, played card games on the floor next to her bed, took turns watching over Whisper and napping on the couch. When Deacon was alone by her bed and Glory was asleep, he felt like he should say something, but no words came out. He just wanted her to open her eyes, to smile, _hey D._ He just wanted her back. All the lies, all of his stupid mental bullshit, his hang-ups and his baggage and his relentless drive for self-destruction… it was all pushed very very far away in those nine hours. He bandaged up his knuckles and prayed.

The sun was just beginning to rise when she awoke. She didn't speak - Glory and Deacon could sense her stirring, they could sense the shift in her energy, and they were at her bedside. When she opened her eyes and looked at him, a wave of relief washed over him. She was all there. She was herself. A little worse for wear, but she was herself. The first words out of her mouth were _I'm so sorry._

"This was so selfish of me. I should've come straight back to HQ. I've wasted everyone's time." her voice was weak, and filled with truest remorse.

 _"No,"_ Glory said emphatically, squeezing Whisper's hand. " _No_ intel is worth your emotional well-being. I know how horrible the Institute is, Whisper. First-hand. I'm _so sorry_ for what you endured there. Are you ready to talk about it?"

Whisper drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded.

"I don't… I don't know where to start. Well… when I was in the Vault, when Kellogg came and took Shaun and killed Nate… they re-froze me, after that. I thought it was only for a while. 10 years, maybe, and that Shaun was still a kid." Her voice cracked and tears spilled from her eyes. "It wasn't 10 years. It was 60."

Deacon felt his stomach drop. _Oh… oh no._ Whisper sniffled and attempted to stem the tears with the corner of the blanket.

"Shaun is there." Her voice was thick. "He's there, and he's…. _old._ He's grown up. All grown up. I missed it all, God, I missed his whole life."

" _Fuck…"_ Deacon muttered. She finally found him, her boy, her partner in crime, and he'd lived his whole life without her.

Whisper shook her head. "He's also… um…. he's the Director of the Institute. They call him Father."

 _Oh._ The room filled with a heavy silence. _Well._

"He's a monster," she spoke quietly, her eyes fixed pointedly down at her own hands. "He's a genius, but… he's a monster. Speaking to him, looking in his eyes, he's just…. _chilling._ I mean he _has_ to be, to be the leader of an organization like that. I just can't believe it. I can't believe my little boy is all grown up and _this_ is what he became. It's so much worse than I imagined. If he was still a boy at least I would have a chance to be his mother, to see him grow, to be with him… they took even that away from me. They killed him, and turned him in to… _that."_

"I don't know what to say." Glory spoke in hushed tones. "That's… that's horrible. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. It is. It's also a really big advantage for us. He knows who I am. He knows I've been coming. But he doesn't know I'm with the Railroad. He wants me to… to help him. To work for him, for them, the Institute. I can be on the inside, for us. I can be a double agent."

"Are you kidding?" Deacon laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. "Whisper, look at the state you're in. One trip to the inside and you go off on a Jet bender that would make Hancock proud. I know you're strong, but are you sure you can handle that?" He was trying to spin it away from sympathy, trying to avoid showing his ass too much. There was more he didn't say. _I don't want to see you hurt like this ever, ever again_

Whisper glared up at him darkly, from shadowed eye sockets. "Hey, Glory? Would you mind giving me and Deacon a moment alone?"

Glory shot Deacon an angry look. _I told you not to hurt her, you asshole._ But she left the room, because her friend asked her to, and went to wait outside in the hallway. Deacon tried to get the first word in.

"Listen, Whisper, I -"

"I didn't want to read it." She cut him off. "I didn't even want to _have_ it in the first place, for fuck's sake. The only reason I took it is because you _manipulated_ me in to it."

He swallowed, hard. _Busted._

"I didn't want to read it, but… it was so awful in there, you have no idea, I was so scared and so alone. They showed me how they make them, how they make synths… _god,_ I'll never forget that, I'll never be able to unsee it, and… I just couldn't stop thinking about you. Sometimes it was all that would get me through the night. I knew if I could just get through it, I could get out and see you again." She laughed bitterly, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "I thought… that little scrap of paper, it was all I had of you. I slept with it under my pillow, I toyed with it in my pocket when I had to sit and listen to the sick things Father said. And then… it just got so dark… I thought if I looked at it, if I read it, even though I didn't want to, I could feel closer to you somehow. I was so desperate for something, _anything._ I'm such a _fucking_ idiot."

Deacon lied, a _lot._ It was kind of a defining characteristic of him as a person. Never before had he felt _so_ small, _so_ low, _so_ absolutely shitty when caught in one of his lies.

"Listen, I-"

" _Please,_ spare me the bullshit. If you're just going to lie to me more, _leave._ I just want to know why you did it."

How did she tower over him, broken and battered lying in bed? How was she so powerful, so forceful, so _beautiful,_ with her eyelashes crusted together with tear-salt coming down from a Jet bender that almost killed her? He was helpless in her wake.

"You'e special." He spoke softly. "That's weird for me. I haven't known anyone special in a _long_ time. And I'm a piece of shit. I lie. A lot. Indiscriminately, to everyone, no matter how special they are. I just want you to know that you can't trust me, so it doesn't hurt as bad when I let you down."

He watched the scar that cut through the left side of her face distort and crinkle as she furrowed her eyebrows, incredulous.

"You don't have to do this, Deacon. Not with me. Don't you understand? When I say I… I have feelings for you… I'm not talking about some fake idealized version of you. I'm talking about the you who fights by my side, who laughs with me, who held me at Mercer that night before I left. There's something _real_ here."

"Yeah, I know." His mouth set in a hard line. "But there can't be. You don't understand, I'm not fit for it."

"That's not your decision to make, Deacon."

For a moment he was silent, torn in two. She was right, of course, she was always right. Her persistence was both incredible and frustrating. Here he was, trying to do everything to push her away, and she was still trying to fight for him. After all she'd been through, seeing her like this… he wanted _her_ , to hold her and never let go, to cover every inch of her skin with the warmth of his lips, to undo all the pain she'd endured. He was trapped, backed into a corner, and like an injured animal he would lash out when all he needed was care and tenderness.

"I'm sorry, Whisper. This can't happen. It won't." He was firm, perhaps firmer than he'd like, his words sharpened to an edge by the hurt he was feeling, on her behalf and his own. He watched her face fall, from disbelief to understanding to heartbreak to cold, leaden anger.

"Okay, fine. I get it. " Her voice was hoarse. "It's forgotten. Don't worry. Anyway, I'm… I'm going back inside. I'm going to keep working with them, and you don't have to worry about me. I won't be using again, _ever_. This was horrible."

"I know, I'm sorry. That was out of line for me to say. You're the strongest person I know, you can handle anything. But this… this is gonna be hard, and it's gonna take a lot out of you, Whisper. It's not just having to go back. You have to work with them, to agree with the things they say, to _help_ them. You have to become one of them. You have to lie to them, consistently, _so_ completely that you convince yourself its the truth too. Otherwise you could slip up, and then we're all finished. Can you do that?"

She looked up at him with a glint of steel in her eyes. "Do what? Lie? Of course I can. I learned from the best."

Deacon laughed bitterly. "It's good to see the Jet didn't fry away that cutting wit of yours. I deserved that, I did. Now, uh… how are you feeling? Up for the trip back to HQ? Dez misses you something fierce. Don't tell her, but I read her diary, she writes about it _every day_. _Dear diary, when is Whisper coming home? I miss her so!"_

Whisper scoffed. "Yeah, I think I've had just about enough of wallowing in despair and feeling sorry for myself. We've got serious work to do."

Glory and Deacon helped Whisper up and out of the Rexford. She was still weak, but on the up. Glory supported her friend's weight, helping her walk. Deacon tried to do the same, but Whisper waved him away and bade him carry her pack and gun instead. _Oh, so what am I, just a pack brahmin?_ He joked, but as he walked behind the two girls back to HQ, he felt some sort of darkness gnawing at his insides. He couldn't help but feel like he'd just made a horrible mistake - he knew it was just a knee-jerk reaction, just a reflex, just his heart refusing to give up without a fight. He'd done the right thing. He had to have done the right thing. She was better off without him, she was too good, she deserved better. He watched her walk, and his mind was filled with a dazzling slideshow of images. All those memories he'd held so close while she was gone. Other things… memories that hadn't been made yet. Things that could have been. If he hadn't turned her away. He saw laughter, and love. He saw their lips touch a thousand times, the tender warmth in her eyes when she looked at him. He saw the scars and burns that adorned her body, _felt_ them under his fingertips, her skin sweat-slick in the depths of darkest passion, not just the body bared but the _soul_. He saw pain, too. Screaming matches, broken glass. Lies and bitter disappointment, her shoulders shaking as she cried and he couldn't help because it was his fault she was crying, a thousand times over and over again. It wasn't worth it. The good was beautiful, _god_ he wanted it more than anything, but the bad was unbearable. If the good never came to pass, if all those gorgeous possibilities stayed possibilities unfulfilled, it would be worth it if it meant he never had to see her hurt like that at his hands.

 _You did the right thing, D. You did the right thing._ He repeated it in his head like a mantra, trying to convince himself it was true.


End file.
